


This Little Piggy Was Naughty

by NerdyMind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Foot Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have no excuse for this.  Started as a headcanon that Sherlock would put his cold feet under John's butt to warm them and then.. smut happened.  PWP, heck of a kinky first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Little Piggy Was Naughty

“Sherlock, stop it.”

“What?”

John shifted on the sofa and glared across at his flatmate, adjusting the jostled computer in his lap. He angrily jabbed at the backspace key, removing the jagged red line and jumbled letters from his blog entry. “You _know_ what.”

There was a truce for all of five seconds until John felt the wriggle of toes pushing back between his arse and the cushion. “Sherlock…” his tone was a warning, eyes never leaving the laptop, fingers paused just above the keys. He could feel cold grey eyes boring into the side of his face, waiting.

 _Wiggle, wiggle, push_. Sherlock’s left foot was halfway under John’s arse now, the right just beginning to dig beneath his thigh. John flexed his hands into little fists, closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. “I will bin your skull if you--”

“I’m coooold,” Sherlock whinged, adding at least four new syllables to the word.

“Then put some bloody socks on,” John steadied his laptop with one hand, tilted and removed the offending toes from his backside, shoving them to the floor with a thud, “or start a fire if you’re so keen to warm up.” Sherlock crossed his arms and stared across the room pouting. Perhaps he believed glaring at the fireplace would cause it to self ignite in shame. John shook his head and returned to writing.

 _Wiggle, wiggle, push_. John’s hand slipped, and he groaned at the victiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiim he would need to delete later. But right now, he had a flatmate to murder.

“Sherlock!” John snapped, setting his laptop to the floor. Sherlock grinned up at him. The six foot lazy arse was unapologetically draped across the sofa, having slowly pushed John to the far end one inch at a time with his blasted prodding.

“I told you, John,” Sherlock gestured to his feet, now fully wedged beneath his flatmate. “I’m cold.” He flexed his toes again, pushing deeper into the cushion of warmth.

John groaned. Sherlock’s bare feet rubbing against his bum for the past half hour was certainly producing heat. More accurately, a raging ball of frustration that ate away at him from the inside. It was a familiar burning, one he knew he couldn’t give in to. Gritting his teeth, John shifted and extracted the bare feet again, only this time the chill of flesh beneath his fingers sent a pulse of guilt straight to his heart. He gave the chilly appendages a squeeze and settled them to his lap. “I know. It’s not your fault.” John’s hands were warm and apologetic, thumbs circling in gentle massage.

For once, Sherlock wasn’t to blame. Their thief had broken free of Greg’s grasp after a painful kick to the poor DI’s shin. Taking off in a sprint, crashing through the front bank window into the blizzard. Sherlock hesitated only a moment before giving chase. Coat, scarf and gloves still in John’s hands where he’d just returned from fetching them. John stood there gaping at the shattered window, mouth hung open like a useless fish. A layer of fine snowflakes had crusted his eyelashes before John’s legs and adrenaline took over. By the time he found them, Sherlock was soaked through and shivering. Sitting on the pavement with the young man unconscious and pinned beneath him.

John shook the morning’s memory from his head. “Even so,” he began, rubbing and prodding more bloodflow back into his flatmate’s toes. “My arse is hardly the most effective means of warming your feet up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed a noncommittal noise and leaned back, eyes slipping closed. John joined him, closing his own eyes, and melting into the silence of the flat. Outside was still blanketed in snow but inside was warm and growing warmer still. He shifted, pulling Sherlock’s feet closer to his lap, rubbing lower, towards each heel. Sherlock flexed his toes, rotating each foot at the ankle before wriggling them deeper into the pocket of warmth beneath John’s fingers.

 _Wiggle, wiggle, push_. John groaned, squeezing the prodding feet to cease their movement. One more shift and Sherlock would notice--

“Ah,” Sherlock spoke softly. His voice warm and sweet like honey. “It would seem all your blood and warmth has relocated itself...” Slowly he shifted his left foot loose from John’s grasp and teased a single toe along the bulge in his lap. John’s cock betrayed him, twitching towards the welcome friction.

“Ah. Sh -Sherlock.. what are you--” Despite his protestations, John slacked his grip, hands resting gently on each pale ankle as Sherlock shifted and rubbed him with the soles of each foot in turn.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it,” Sherlock answered. He opened his eyes, found John staring at him in shock. Mouth frozen open in unuttered denial. “The last time our knees brushed at Angelos you changed three shades of red then locked yourself in the bathroom for an emergency wank as soon as we returned to the flat.”

John flushed through the entire scale of reds and bit his lip. What sort of waking wet dream was this? Sherlock Holmes had just rubbed his cock and used the word ‘wank’. He turned away, eyes set on the union jack pillow in his chair like an anchor. He could feel Sherlock’s stare. Daring John to deny him.

Sensing movement, John chanced a look back to his side and found Sherlock shifting closer. His hands replaced his feet for the briefest of moments, rubbing and coaxing John’s cock to hardness as he undid the zip and button of his trousers. John stared transfixed at the movement in his own lap. “Jesus Sherlock, oh… god.” Skilled fingers pulled him free, teasing the beaded wetness from his slit.

John swallowed hard and licked his lips. Tried not to notice as Sherlock’s hungry gaze followed the movement. He let himself be positioned, legs open on either side of Sherlock’s hips. His cock pulsing, begging for contact between them. Sherlock leaned in close as John gulped down another gasp of air. His breath was hot and wet, just a whisper. “We can stop, John. If you want.”

John took a deep breath, straightened his posture and turned to face his living fantasy. “No,” he said simply, hoping his eyes would say what his mouth could not. Something translated, must have, and Sherlock was shifting back.

For a moment it felt unfair, John’s cock left exposed, untouched. Sherlock still clothed in his soft grey tee and shamefully thin sleep trousers. His blue silk dressing gown pooling behind him as he settled back across the sofa. Gentle hands rubbed up each calf, coaxing John to relax as his feet made their first contact.

The initial feeling was cold and unfamiliar, just a tease of toes, testing the waters. But friction and desire warmed him up in no time. A small dance was performed for him there in the small space of his lap, flexible toes and soles turned and twisted, pushing him this way and that. John found his eyes slipping closed, his hands rubbing the calves and knees between him as Sherlock rubbed and pushed harder. The sensation changed again and John forced his eyes open.

Sherlock had both feet on him now, sole to sole, enveloping his cock in a soft wall of heat. Both men stared as John’s hips rocked in time with Sherlock’s rubbing. His pink cock appearing and disappearing between them, wet and dripping.

“John..”

The man so named looked up to find his flatmate staring between them in awe. He watched puffy pink lips, nibbled in nervousness as Sherlock suppressed a moan. .

“Sherlock..” John moaned the man’s name in reply. A plea for more, but more what he did not know. His hips rocked faster, hands wringing the cushion beneath him. Sherlock licked his lips and adjusted his feet impossibly closer, closing the space between them until it was too tight, too perfect.

“Oh.. there, there, yes,” John rattled off his approval, he closed his eyes once more, reveling in the sensation of Sherlock’s feet hot and slick around him. Head tossed back, he lost himself. A strangled cry ripped free and he came at last, hot stripes making a mess of them both. Eyes still closed, John slacked into the sofa panting. Fingers flexed and slowly released the cushion.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice sounded far away. Floating to John’s ears from a distant dream.

“Mmm?” John slowly came down from the high, eyes squinting back open. He found his face ached, unable to stop smiling.

“My feet are still cold,” Sherlock pouted, “and now they are sticky.”

John answered Sherlock’s frown by smiling wider. Sitting up, he shifted the sticky toes to the floor. Tried not to laugh as Sherlock stared on in confusion.  John carefully rose and kneeled into the sofa, hovering over him.  He swiftly bent forward and placed a chaste kiss over pouting lips.  Smiled into the gasp that followed and stood back up. John slipped free of his ruined jumper and peeled off the sweat soaked vest beneath as Sherlock blinked and flushed through shades of pink.

“We should get you warmed and cleaned up, yeah?” John dropped his soiled trousers and pants together and walked to the bathroom.

The mirror was just starting to steam over when Sherlock joined him.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I have all these WIPs and I promise I will get back to them as soon as my brain cooperates. <3


End file.
